by Scott Kelly
I stood one cabinet over, skimming through a list of last names, looking for anyone familiar. “What was that?” I asked him. No answer; the file was already replaced and the drawer shut.
Emily held open a folder she’d pulled, apparently hers. “How can one girl have straight A’s and still a dozen complaints? Seems unfair. They don’t like me.” Pouting lips. “Let’s start over. Who should I be?” Emily pulled a thick stack of papers from her file and dumped them into the trash. “Not just anyone.”
Only half listening, I thumbed through a stack of manila folders. Jamison, Johnson, Joyce. Nora’s file. I wondered if she’d ever been in trouble; I opened the folder. Nothing but straight A’s and charity work.
Emily’s breath rustled the tiny hairs on my neck. “Whatcha got there?” she asked.
“Nothing.” I stuffed it back into place.
Wicked nails pinched Nora’s file right back out. “Nothing? You look at one file in this whole room, and it’s nothing? Then you won’t mind if I take some of her good deeds?”
“Don’t,” I said, regretting it instantly. David turned to look at me. “We’re friends,” I explained.
“You and Ms. Piggy?” Emily asked, laughing, still holding Nora’s file. “Holy crap, look at this: gifted and talented. Accelerated reader. Math Olympics. There’s a Math Olympics? Are we gonna get drafted into the spelling war? So stupid. This girl has never gotten in trouble in her life.” She dug black-painted nails into Nora’s identity.
I froze, trapped by my conscience. “Leave it alone,” I said. “Anyone else, I don’t care. Not her.”
Emily’s slender hand gripped the file tighter. “And why, precisely, would I do you a favor?”
Could feel David watching as I floundered for an answer.
“I like her,” I blurted. “I think. I mean, it’s complicated. She’s always been nice to me, since eighth grade.”
“Let me get this straight: this chubby nerd is more important to you than satisfying a desire that came to me a few seconds ago, completely on a whim?” she asked.
David laughed.
“Yeah, that’s what I mean. Sorry, I just—she’s been nice to me. Mess with anyone else in the whole school, I don’t care.”
“Challenge accepted,” Emily grinned. She slipped the file back into the drawer. “No problem, anyway.”
Close one. When Nora’s file was back in the drawer, I shut it and walked over to a black metal box sitting in the far corner of the records room.
“What do you think is in here?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.
David knelt down and tugged at the door; the half-inch sheet of metal swung open. I craned my neck to see over his shoulder. Emily cooed in astonishment.
“The cell phones,” she said. “Shiny.”
Inside the cabinet were row upon row of confiscated cell phones, each tagged with a student’s name and the date they were taken. School policy: if a teacher got mad enough, it’d end up here for a few days.
Many of the phones were identical. Slim black cases and flat glass screens.
“Speaking of identities,” Emily said, picking up two of the similar looking phones, “what do you think would happen if we switched around the names, got people the wrong phone? Lots of texts in the memory here, you know? Air the dirty laundry, share the secrets.” She pinched one of the plastic labels assigning a name between two fingers and pulled; it peeled away from the case of the phone.
I reached in past her, grabbing one of the devices. So light; cool and metal in my hand. Elegant little piece of science fiction. Should just take it. I deserved it more than them. They owed me, anyway, for all the hell they’d put me through. My hand started to work its way back to my pocket.
“That’s not clever,” David said.
I put the phone back on the shelf.
A noise came from outside the vault. We tensed, muscles tight. Heard muttering as someone re-locked the office door.
“Let’s get out of here,” Emily murmured.
15. Poortraits
Junior year
My pencil’s tip snapped on the tablet of paper in front of me. I’d lost concentration; couldn’t stop thinking about breaking into the office. The school seemed different, somehow. Like I knew its secrets.
Last period. Art class sucked—they let us sit in desks and ‘express ourselves,’ which made me uncomfortable. A lifetime of fending for myself, being left alone—and in the last two years, now that it hardly mattered, everyone seemed interested in Jacob Thorke’s feelings.
Adding to that discomfort was Emily, who stood behind me, crowded by easels. I didn’t have money for paints, so I’d borrowed a charcoal pencil from the teacher. No idea how Emily conned a cache of colors.
I caught myself staring as she concentrated on the canvas, the end of a brush between full lips. Dark makeup painted over porcelain skin, dewy gaze sunken into deep bruises of eye shadow. The canvas only caught her cast-off. Emily was the real artwork—not only a person, but an image. Emily was aware.
The last bell of the day rang. While everyone else filed out of the classroom as quickly as possible, I got stuck trying to give a damn pencil back to a teacher who already stepped out of the room.
“Jacob, would you come and tell me what you think?” Emily asked.
Nervous. Felt my shoulders draw together at the base of my neck. Never knew what to think of Emily, and her chief concern seemed to be making sure this remained true. I went to her, stepping carefully between the easels. Being surrounded by all that amateur artwork made it feel like we were in our own little room.
Her canvas? A random mess of red, black, and yellow.
“It’s you,” I said.
“Thanks.” Didn’t know if she took me seriously or not.
“Um…I’m going to get going,” I stammered, for lack of anything better to say.
“I wanted to ask you something else.”
“Yeah?” Cold sweat forming.
She walked around me, constant dramatist. I turned to pretend to study the painting. Her warm, soft body nestled a little too closely behind mine. The stiff material of a bra shifted against my bicep; a long fingernail traced a line down my spine, coming to rest in my back pocket.
“Have you ever wondered what it would be like? Me and you?” Emily asked. Every consonant pushed hot breath into my ear.
“More than once,” I admitted.
“I’d love to find out sometime. Just to experiment, y’know?”
Leg lifted between mine, knee rising up to my crotch gently, feeling the results of her work. Then, a hand on the side of my face. Couldn’t even feel her skin, only the rush of the fact it was happening. Emily pulled me into her, other hand squeezing me. “Tag.”
Fifteen minutes to do something life changing.
Our lips met. Her tongue slipped wetly below mine. Emily’s hand went up into the air; I didn’t know why.
I heard a grunt of disgust and sensed motion in the doorway. I looked up to see a girl walking away.
“Thanks for coming, Nora,” Emily called to her.
Dread wrapped cold fingers around my heart and squeezed. I pulled away from Emily, took two steps back, then weaved through the easels toward the door.
“Let her go. Jesus,” Emily said to me.
Needed to find Nora. It’s not like we were dating, not sure why I cared so much—but I knew I should.
Must mean something.
I turned into the hallway. Nora stopped, turned and watched me approach.
“Sorry I interrupted,” she said, speech tight, eyes wet. “I should have known that Emily…” her voice cracked. She tried to speak again but failed, and put a hand up to her face instead.
“Emily is messing with you. With us. She thinks I like you, Nora. I mean, I think I like you, too.”
Nora stared at the ground, refusing eye contact. She tried to speak, but her voice cracked again. Finally: “Looks like you like Emily.”
“Emily and I are friends,
Nora. She only kissed me to mess with me. I didn’t even know you liked me, come on. I’m a joke in this school. And, I don’t want to be with Emily. She’s…Emily is crazy, Nora. I couldn’t date her if I tried, believe me. She’s just messing with me.”
“If you tried?” Nora sniffed back tears. I sensed the tide changing. “So let me get this straight: you were just kissing, and you’ve tried to date her—but you’d still settle for me. Gee, thanks. Forget it, Jacob.” She spun and marched out of the school, leaving me dumbfounded, gripping my forehead and looking back and forth between the art room and the school’s exit.
Emily approached. “You should’ve let me take her file.”
“Seriously? Is that why you did all this?”
She shrugged, grinning. “C’mon, it’s obvious she likes you. Since the file clearly defines the person…If I had her file, maybe I’d like you, too.”
“What do you care? Are you asking me out?”
Emily laughed. “I don’t have boyfriends, Jacob.”
“Then why do you care if I have a girlfriend?”
“Because you’re mine.” She bit her lip to kill the smile growing there.
16. David graduates
Now
“I barely talked to Nora for the rest of the year,” I say. “Some friends, right? I’ll never understand women. Why couldn’t Nora have told me she was interested earlier?”
Mr. Aschen looks at me, clearly unimpressed. “Jacob, problems with girls are perfectly normal at your age. What’s not normal is, y’know—the cult, the unwavering devotion to a sociopath, the illegal activity. Let’s try and focus on what got you arrested.”
“You call him a sociopath, but you’re wrong,” I argue.
“It’s absolutely correct: David was a complete narcissist. In his mind, he was the only human on a planet full of apes. Maybe I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but we need to focus on you now. There’s nothing we can do for David,” Mr. Aschen says, hands holding a piece of paper drawn from the manila folder.
“You’re lying.” My voice is louder than expected. Maybe I care more than I want to admit. “David wasn’t an egomaniac, and I’m not some trained monkey. He led through example. No one was more serious about Eureka than David—look at everything he sacrificed.”
“You’re talking about graduation. I’m familiar with it, but please—tell me, Jacob. Tell me what’s so great about this particular tragedy.” Now the pen is in his hand, ready to write.
*
Junior year, last day
I still spoke with Nora a few times after Emily’s ambush, but things weren’t the same. More than kissing Emily, too—there was a larger disconnect between us. Eureka made a wide divide.
But even Eureka’s fate was in jeopardy: today, David graduated, presumably leaving Kingwood forever. Scholarships came easy for a low income guy with a hundred and four point three GPA. He could go where he wanted.
And what would my life be, then? No Eureka, no break-ins, no excitement. I needed David to stay, but I couldn’t tell him. All I could do was watch him graduate, and pretend to be happy.
Half the city lined up in the stands of the Kingwood coliseum. Red and white striped paper bags of popcorn, thick pickles in plastic baggies. Little brothers and sisters watching, wedged between mom and dad. A badly-tuned marching band in full regalia, on the bleachers opposite me, rampaged through a rendition of the school song. A dark fist of storm clouds gathered far on the horizon; several knobby cumulus knuckles threatened to unfurl into raking sheets of rain.
Most of the Six sat in the bleachers near me. The public event would make a devastating place for a tag—and everyone seemed to understand that, so tensions ran high. By my count, Steven was ‘it.’ I kept constant track of him; he sat on the bottom row.
Kent and Cameron sat together, up above me, watching the proceedings. While the spectators continued to trickle in, the seniors stood fidgeting outside. David stood at the head of the procession.
The sound of trumpets retuning called the hair on the back of my neck to attention. Moments later, the march began. The long line of seniors moved to the front of the field, where they’d be displayed before taking their seats for the rest of the ceremony. As they crossed the area in front of the crowd, teachers and friends stood in a line to congratulate them. Happy Kingwood bullshit.
I scanned the faces of the attendees and caught one snag in the otherwise smooth procession: Steven, glasses gleaming, waiting for David to pass him.
Gotta get down there. If Steven tagged David now—I didn’t want to guess what would happen. Too much. I ran down the bleachers, working to wedge my way through the crowd. Soon, though, the bodies got too thick; even when I tugged at the shoulder in front of me, it didn’t budge.
The line of graduating seniors advanced slowly, each shuffling step bringing David closer to Steven. Slow-motion train wreck. The two friends stood a few feet apart. I was ten feet away, trapped.
David could turn back. He could just avoid him, walk around. I would have.
They met. Steven shook the older boy’s hand, then reached out and clapped David on the back. I didn’t need to be able to read lips to tell the single syllable spoken.
Felt my heart stop, restart, then stop again. Now what?
If David was worried to only have fifteen minutes to change his life in front of the entire town, it didn’t show. After another round of applause for the seniors, they took seats on the field. The principal stepped up to a podium to begin the introductions. After a bit of sentimental nonsense, the administrator announced my friend:
“And now we present your valedictorian, David Bloom,” a low voice boomed out from the dozen stacked speakers.
Thunderous ovation. And why not? Kid from the wrong part of town who beat all the odds, had the highest grades in his class. David stood, looking shocked and amazed, humble as always.
I couldn’t help but ride a swell of pride.
David cleared his throat, and the audience fell still. “Thank you for this honor,” he began, then stopped and looked around.
I tried to imagine myself in his shoes, with minutes left to complete the tag. Would he ignore Steven’s challenge and graduate like normal? That’d be my reaction. But, I knew from experience: David didn’t compromise.
He spoke: “I thought a long time about what I’d say up here today. I’ve been a victim of Kingwood my whole life.” A nervous titter from the audience. “I’m from another part of town. A little circle of trailers, in the woods, called Broadway. It was made clear to me early on that we lived in two different worlds, that I was an outsider. It’s okay, though. I’m good at fitting in.” David smiled, stepped back from the microphone and shook his head before leaning in. “A part of being on the outside is noticing things. I’ve noticed that the system is broken. Hell, I didn’t help things—but it was broken a long time before I cheated my way to being valedictorian.”
You couldn’t manufacture this kind of silence.
“The way our grades are decided is a joke. We’re ranked and ordered by how well we can manipulate the system. Take the right classes, with the right teachers. It has almost nothing to do with learning. I decided to take advantage of that—I organized with about forty of the seniors sitting behind me in those little metal chairs. We all cheated our way to the top, sharing tests and homework. None of them thought I’d announce this today, but it’s time to put a bullet in the head of a structure that’s been broken for too long. You’ve all been cheated; the class rankings are a lie. Anyway, sorry in advance for the trouble this will cause. It’s been real. Thank you.”
Silence reigned. The spectators sat, mouths slack, as parents and students tried sucking in air to cool overheating brains.
The first sound was someone trying to start a slow clap. It failed.
The second sound? One of David’s teachers breaking into tears.
The third was everyone shifting uncomfortably in their seats.
David walked straight off t
he field. A dirty little murmur metastasized into to an argument within the crowd: was it true? The results of the entire year were now in question.
The ground dropped from under me; I’d never expected our game to go this far. David Bloom forfeited his own future, his scholarships—and for what? To make a statement. To piss people off. All because of Eureka.
And Steven was responsible. The little shit; he should’ve known better. He should’ve known David couldn’t say no.
Steven began working his way through the crowd. Something in the way he smiled boiled my blood. Not anger: rage. An uncontrollable urge to beat the crap out of this smug little punk. Steven thought he’d done something amazing.
I wondered about taking the fall for him with Kent. Did he plan that, too? Was he really hurting, or did he just know I was a sucker for guilt trips—that I’d do anything to keep everyone friends?
The little nerd retreated back under the bleachers. I followed closely, pushing my way past the slow-moving line of confused audience members. Steven’s shoulder was in reach; I grabbed on and spun him to face me. I tried to say something, but the words wouldn’t come.
Then he aimed the smirk at me. I couldn’t handle it; I shoved him, hard, sending him tripping over an older man in a suit and tie.
Steven charged back at me, fist connecting with my cheek. Hit a lot harder than I thought he would; the immediate numbness evolved into burning pain. I punched him back. Steven tackled me, arms wrapped around my knees, dragging me down. We rolled around, swinging at each other, each working to pin the other.
Graduation was over.
As I fought to stand, bodies collided with Steven’s then mine, sending me rolling back into the cement. Someone in a blue uniform grappled with my hands, which I kept extended, desperately warding away whatever was coming.
Pepper spray hissed. May as well have been a flamethrower. My eyes, cheeks and mouth ignited in blinding pain. Logic left me; I kept swinging.